Little Connection
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Yao should not be jealous. He is not jealous...but he is. To know that, on the side of the Japanese, Kiku left him, and this one man left his wife who fought for him for years. Slight historical. Historical figures Guo Moruo and Satoo Tomiko. One-shot.


_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine. Hidekazu o miite kudasai~ ...Don't think too deeply into that._

"Guo Moruo," the man said simply.

"Wang Yao." The nation reached out, one hand stretched to the Western ways.

Guo Moruo stared, though not impolitely, before outstretching his own arm -- his palm met the nation's and they shook.

Silence quickly encompassed the setting while they shook their hands, slowly; it was only ruffled by the slow parting of the two palms after, dropping back to their respective sides with a muffled clap. They stood evenly, looking at each other and not breaking the contact. There was no tension; it was too lazy to stir, and tired. Yao's company was familiar to it, and it wanted only to stay away as much as Yao wanted to parry it -- how could he, though? So this was a relief.

This meeting was coincidence.

Yao spoke first. As he did, he was suddenly unconscious of the buzzing battle of the land of China once again locked in civil war. Conversation. Family. Yes...those could fend off the sinking feeling and rising phoenix that fought to asexually reproduce China. Politics and war could be nothing, because this was a moment of time that had nothing to do with them -- they had to do with family. A small moment of family and honor, and all that was important. Guo Moruo, he thought, would understand. A man such as this would understand. And as such, the war decides to withdraw, to allow another kind of sorrow descend upon him. "I have heard," he began, "that your wife is a Japanese woman."

Those words were taboo.

Japanese were taboo.

Guo Moruo seemed troubled, though his face remained most unchanging. "My wife is a Shanghainese woman. Perfectly Chinese."

Yao tried not to wince, and failed. Denial. How it hurt, even from the lips of a mortal Chinese man. "No," he said, but not hastily. "I have heard that before you had a Japanese wife. I know not what her name is -- but someone came. I saw her with you, utter coincidence of course." The man raised an eyebrow, though Yao did not let a word escape him before he himself was finished. "I heard Satoo."

That name was taboo.

Japanese names were taboo.

"Satoo," Guo Moruo said, slowly. He almost seemed to be savoring the words upon his tongue, like a last bite of sugarcane for the starving. And yet, his face did not change. "Satoo," he said again.

Yao shifted. Daring to ask, he said, "What is her full name?"

He expected the man's face to contort. For the man to simply walk out of the room, not wanting again to be the usher for his wife. Once-wife. He expected to walk out like Yao himself whenever his little brother had been mentioned in the war. Brothers, of course -- he had not, of course, wanted to think of his suffering little Hong Kong's wounds when he had caught a glimpse of him under Japanese occupation; he had not wanted to think of Korea, beaten beyond the spirited boy he had been before the war; he had repulsed all thought of the cause of their suffering, _his_suffering, Kiku, Japan. The little Japan he had raised with a mother's love and father's pride and brother's presence. The silent monster he had become, opposed to the silent genius he had once been. The dull eyes that had once gazed with fascination at Chinese culture, though he had never let on. Yao had assumed, and Yao had been correct.

He did not expect for the man to comply. What of denial, then?

"Tomiko. Satoo Tomiko."

"Tomiko," Yao said, slowly. He savored the words, genuinely. He savored them like a strange and exotic dish. It was so strange, to be speaking the language he had dreaded over the course of the war, scornfully and hatefully, for all his suffering. It was an ugly language, he thought, and graceful when it was not screamed. An ugly, wild language, he had thought; but before he had thought it in fact beautiful. It was swirling black ink, and like writing hanzi with a brush upon the pristine blue sky. And the war had turned it into a rough language, one to loathe. It was gunshots and explosions then. And to kill and burn and loot. "Satoo Tomiko." He looked at the man's unmoving face. "That is a" -- dare he say it? -- "pretty name." It brought images of days before, of tea ceremony and Yamato Nadeshiko. Gentleness and sakura.

Where had all that gone?

"As my nation says," Guo Moruo said. Yao succeeded, this time, in restraining his flinch. This man was a member of his Communist party. He had left Japan to join him in the anti-Japanese resistence. This man was fighting for what he believed in, and what for his country. Yao was reminded of him in this background. Japan, because he had lived there. Japan, because he had known his wife there.

"Tell me," Yao said, almost suddenly -- but his tone was changed. That was why. He was curious to know...and perhaps jealous. He dared not to think himself jealous...but the connection, the sheer _irony _of it all.... "Tell me, for I am curious. Satoo came back after the war, did she not? She spent the war fending off officials so your children would not become proper Japanese citizens. And when it was over she came to be with you again, only to find that you had found another woman, and made a new family."

"That is correct." Was that pain Yao saw?

"Then why..." Yao's voice hitched -- Kiku, only Kiku, there was only Kiku...his mind was filled with Kiku. His Ri Ben, his didi, his Japan, his Nihon-where-the-sun-rose..._his_ little brother of another blood. How he had loved him, so much, so much -- the little boy he had seen grow into a strong man, who had remained unchanging...and now was finally, _finally _changed. He was not jealous...even if the wounds were fresh. He had numbed to the pain, had he not? "Then why," he began again, "did you abandon her..." His mind shot through with reasons, many reasons. Thousands upon thousands, and hundreds and millions. The reason to throw away a faithful wife who defied all parting rifts of hate. Love over country...constant struggles -- and in the end, all of it gone to waste. If there was a reason, then it was not good enough. Or was it? "Wait!" he said, just as the man finally opened his mouth. "I don't want to know," he said quickly, painfully.

The man closed his mouth again, and nodded.

Yao hoped he understood.

Kiku.

He had not seen him for a long while -- Mao was on the move, as was Chiang. He was on neither side. He remembered the war at that point.

Yao nodded as well. "Well then," he said. "We can't sit around just talking about past Japanese wives and brothers. The land around us is clashing." After a pause, he continued, "Perhaps, then, one day, we shall be friends with the Japanese again." He tried not to grimace at this, for he felt his scars. He felt his heart, a soreness where Japan had struck. While Guo Moruo had but one lifetime, Yao had one as well, a mixture of many. Satoo Tomiko...to think that on the side of the Japanese, a woman had proven great in faith, while her husband had moved on. Yao could not imagine it...to take it for granted. Oh, how Kiku must have taken his brotherhood for granted. Had he? Did he?

One more question, and then he would stop thinking. Stop thinking of the Japanese brothers and Japanese enemies.

He must strive for the future.

"One more thing," he said. Guo Moruo looked at him. He had his attention. Good. "Where did you live with Satoo Tomiko?" And that woman...where was she, this great woman of the opposing side? He locked that one away.

"Ichikawa."

--

_**PT: Guo Moruo was a member of the Chinese communist party. He had gone to college in Japan, where he had met his wife-to-be, Satoo Tomiko. They fell in love, and connected through their grief over the death of Guo's friend; Satoo was there when he went for records. Despite the fact that their communities were vehemently opposed, they fell in love and married, and lived in Ichikawa. They had five children. Then the Second Sino-Japanese War started, and the family tried to flee to China. Only Guo Moruo got there, and joined the anti-Japanese resistence. Satoo-san spent the war basically keeping pressure at bay, to keep the children from becoming full Japanese citizens. She went to China after the war, but by then Guo had started a new family with a Shanghainese actress.**_

**_Most of all of Guo's children are still living. Satoo herself died about twenty years ago. Before that, she was interviewed for a book about her, and...well, she sounded pretty damn bitter. Because of the Guo Moruo connection, Ichikawa became a sister city with Leshan in China. When I found the situations surrounding the marriage...well, I was shocked. And I wondered how Yao would feel. If I decided to make him more sappy, of course -- I picture him as sort of rising after the Second Sino-Japanese war. Sad about Kiku, but having put nation -much- higher over him in priority. -Much- more than before, not that it hadn't been. Ironically as well, my current Japanese teacher's husband is Chinese as well. Just strange timing._**

**_Yeah, I've just realized how long it's been since I've last released a China-centered fic. I didn't have a lot of resource for Guo Moruo and Satoo Tomiko; they pretty much don't give a damn in the Western world, and my Chinese is horrid. So, before I go off to visit the Mediterranean, here ya go! C:_**


End file.
